


in the movies and the hymns

by eudaimon



Category: Star Trek RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-18
Updated: 2013-05-18
Packaged: 2017-12-12 06:12:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/808219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eudaimon/pseuds/eudaimon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They steal what moments they can.  He never wanted to ruin anybody's life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	in the movies and the hymns

_you just left me there awake_

_you kept me wanting wanting wanting  
like the wanting in the movies and the hymns_

 

At baggage claim in LAX, his guitar case slung on his shoulder, he brushes his thumb against touch-screen and scans down a list of numbers. He got shit for using his phone in JFK but he decides to chance it. He holds the phone against his thigh, skinny denim that feels gritty from close to two days travelling, and he barely has to look at the phone himself to find the number. He taps his hat against his leg and listens to the ringing on the line.

Eight rings and, when it picks up, he expects it to go to voice-mail.

It doesn't.

John's in the middle of talking to someone else, when he answers the phone.

"...And milk. Please. Shit."

Anton huffs a laugh through his nose. After two weeks, it's good to just hear John's life going on without him.

"Milk in what?"

He can hear John laughing. He remembers stepping in closer, before, on set, just a moment, to feel John's back against his chest when he laughed.  
Little things. Stolen things.

He never wanted to hurt anyone.

"Coffee," says John, and Anton imagines him standing in a trailer, rubbing the back of his neck, t-shirt and jeans and an FBI badge at his belt. A gun on the table, maybe. Anton wonders how many times in his career he can possibly get away with handling a gun in a movie and looking credible? Kyle Reese was probably the last. Fuck, that was cool. Bags have started to go around on the conveyor. 

"Just coffee?"  
"Yeah, just coffee. You think I have time for lunch?"

On the other side of the belt there's a girl who recognises him, maybe. She keeps looking at him and then glancing down at her phone quick enough that it's really obvious that she's trying not to be noticed. It's not entirely surprising, given the movies he managed to be _in_ this year, but that doesn't mean it's not slightly embarrassing when he's here, in the airport, on his own, _Anton Yelchin_ , not Kyle or Chekov or anybody else he's managed to be this year.

He turns slightly to the side and puts his hat back on, shielding his face with a bent arm.

"You have time for me?" he asks, voice rough from twenty hours in the air and two weeks missing, and more, when all he could do was swing by some times and hang out with John and Keri and the baby. It's shit, but it's not as shit as going on dates with girls he doesn't like, can barely muster up the interest to fuck, and then he drives up to the hills and he sits with one foot up on the dash and he listens to music and he chain-smokes and the lights, oh God, the lights. Nights like those, he decides that being twenty fucking _sucks_ and then he goes home and finds his Mom drinking spiked tea in the kitchen with soft Russian voices on the radio and, sometimes, he sits down next to her and rests his head against her shoulder, and, sometimes, he just steals her tea and sometimes, it's her cigarette and she bitches at him the whole time that he's smoking, but she lets him, all the same.

There's a pause on the other end of the line, and Anton hears John softly thank someone for his coffee. He stands there in silence and almost misses his bag coming towards him. He yanks it off they belt and misses what John says.

"Shit. What was that?"  
"I said, we're done early tonight. Pick me up at eight."

Anton wonders what time Keri expects John home, if he's finished at eight?  
"Okay," he says. "Alright."

*

In the end, he waits until 9.30, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel, playing Hammerheads demos, picking them apart and trying new chords on the battered guitar that he keeps in the van for times like these, times when he's waiting on the guy he worked with, hopes to work with again, tentatively calls a friend when he's not fucking him without his wife finding out. It's his _trying-not-to-ruin-someone's-fucking-life_ guitar.

He's dozing, idly picking out somebody else's song when the passenger door opens and his truck bounces a little when someone bounces down into the seat.

"That's sweet of you...to serenade me, I mean. That's fucking _romantic_."  
"Hey, fuck you," says Anton, without opening his eyes, but he doesn't stop smiling as he throws the truck into drive. "Where do you want to go?"

"Somewhere," says John, arching in the seat, stretching his back, and Anton tries not to watch and categorically fails.

"That's my line," says Anton, driving in a lazy circle and pulling out of the lot. "And I think you're the only one who saw that fucking movie."

He always loves it when John laughs.

"Let's go up to the hills," he says. "I love it up there.

_Let's not talk about things he loves._

"This music okay?" he asks, pretty sure that Kat left this C.D on the dash the last time he gave her a ride somewhere. _You spoke the words: I love girls in white leather jackets_ "I've got your piece of shit C.D in the glove-box if you prefer."

He's surprised when John slides along the bench seat and ends up pressed right along side him. 

"The music's fine," he says, worming an arm between the small of Anton's back and the seat. "Just shut up and drive."

*

Up in the hills, the air's warm and still, little breeze, so he can barely smell the smoke and the ash from the fires burning upstate, but it's there, a touch on his tongue, when he kisses John, moving over him slowly like any minute he might be told _stop_ and _wait_. He doesn't want to stop and wait; he's twenty years old, and his blood is rushing and his bones are still finding adult height and he just wants to dance and fuck and then lie in the front seat of his truck, looking down at the city, his L.A, pulsing and bleeding light like some kind of off-centre many ventricled heart.

In the silence, the relatively privacy of the hills and the ash-tasting breeze, Anton strips himself so he's naked in the bed of his truck when he leans forward and carefully undoes every button on John's dress shirt. John pushes ten fingers into his hair (which he's going to have to cut for the next movie, but he's leaving it as long as he can) and pulls, slightly, Anton's lips sliding against the skin over his sternum, down over his ribs.

Dimly, he remembers thinking that there ought to be more poetic names for bones.

"Do you want me to fuck you?" asks John, smoothing the hair back from his forehead and kissing him against his hairline, cradling his chin with one hand. Anton turns his head and licks at John's thumb, parting his lips and sucking on it, his hands working at John's belt and fly, moaning when John fucks his mouth a little.

Over his head, he hears John's breath catch with a sigh.

"Or do you want to fuck me.

Yes. Yes, yes, yes, that's what Anton wants tonight, with the smell of fires and the lights from the city and the aching in his wondering, wandering heart.

"Fuck, yes," he breathes, pressing his hand inside John's pants, wrapping his fingers around his dick and stroking him with a roll of his wrist. He jerks him slowly, lifting his head, catching his mouth with a sharp, hard kiss, and John's cradling his face with oe hand again, and his wedding ring holds the same heat as the rest of him. He presses him backwards until he ca lean over him again, one knee between his thighs as he pushes his pants down and off and that's both of them naked in the bed of Anton's truck, kissing wet and messy, bad and wrong and _sinning_ and loving it.

"Fuck me," says John, tugging on Anton's hair until he can look him in the face. "C'mon. I haven't got all night."

But Anton's twenty years old, which means he's got all of the time in the world and, at the same time, none. Everything happens too quickly. Nothing lasts.  
Everything that happens in the world is an echo.

In the truck bed, it's the same as hotel beds, or that time they did it in John's trailer or that once in an airplane bathroom. It's a rush and then a sudden stillness that comes with the moment when Anton's pressed deep inside John's body, John's dick hard and pressing into his belly, and he's still, for a moment, just trying to catch his breath again, just trying to find and keep his centre.

When he starts to move, John groans softly and grasps at him with both hands, rocks under him and urges him deeper, and it always feels a little bit like Anton's falling, when they're together like this, and it _always_ feels like this, which is probably why he never keeps a girlfriend for very long.

He comes before John does and, afterward, they lie close in the bed of the truck and watch the stars and they pass a cigarette back and forth between them and add their own to the smell of the smoke.

*

Pulling into his drive-way, Kat's c.d playing again, Anton thinks about how John waked away from the truck and didn't look back. He thinks about the time he went over to John's house and held the baby in his arms. He thinks about going into the house and sneaking his Mom's cigarette, and she'll bitch at him the whole time he's smoking but she'll let him, all the same.

_It was good enough for love. It was good enough for me._

In the end, he just sits on the hood of his truck, leaning back against the windshield, and he smokes one of his own cigarettes, and he mourns how you can't really see the stars from all the way down here.


End file.
